


Make Me Behave Like an Animal

by FreshAfterDark, nastea



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alpha Steve Harrington, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Closeted Character, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Billy Hargrove, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Scent Kink, Scenting, Sexual Tension, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshAfterDark/pseuds/FreshAfterDark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastea/pseuds/nastea
Summary: Billy Hargrove has lived with a lie for so long now that sometimes evenhebuys into it.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 24
Kudos: 378
Collections: harringrove for BLM





	Make Me Behave Like an Animal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Awrble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awrble/gifts).



> A BLM donation piece for the lovely [awrble](https://awrble.tumblr.com/)! Thank you so much for commissioning me, Fresh and I had a fucking blast writing it!
> 
> If anyone's interested in more scenes within this universe, let us know in the comments. 
> 
> And as always, feel free to come follow us ([nastea](https://tea-otter.tumblr.com/) & [FreshAfterDark](http://freshafterdark.tumblr.com/)) on tumblr!

Billy Hargrove has lived with a lie for so long now that sometimes even _he_ buys into it. 

Coming to Hawkins has helped with the illusion; no one here knows who he is. Or _was._ No one has any reason to suspect he's posing as something he's not, anyway. Not after he came strutting into Hawkins High with all the piss and vinegar of an alpha eager to prove himself. It’s never mattered that he doesn't _smell_ very alpha — with the blockers knocking out his pheromones, Billy might as well pose as a beta. 

But 'alpha' suits him better. Billy has the temperament of one. He sure as hell has never fit the stereotype of some shrinking violet of an omega ready to roll over like a bitch. 

It could be that Neil’s just beaten that nature out of him. Billy’s almost grateful for it. At least this way the world respects him. At least this way he isn't _weak._

There are moments, though, when Billy is reminded that he isn't what he pretends to be. More often than not, Steve Harrington has something to do with it. 

There are plenty of alphas at Hawkins High. Billy has already put them all in line — he's roughed them up til they know their place and leave him a wide berth in the halls. The only one Billy hasn't gotten under his boot is Harrington, but that's because he doesn't seem interested in rising to Billy's bait. Hell, he doesn't seem interested in Billy, period. Like Harrington doesn't think Billy's worth his attention, much less his time. 

It's bullshit. How's Billy supposed to assert himself as top dog if Hawkins High's reigning king won't fight him for the title? 

And how's Billy supposed to keep the whole school convinced he's what he says he is when Harrington has the nerve to show up to gym class smelling like— _that?_

The scent hits Billy like a truck. 

He's got his head in a gym locker and has to resist the urge to spin around the moment he first breathes it in. He already knows who it is; Steve's smell is so easy to recognize, Billy could pick it out in a crowd. It doesn't matter that the alpha change room reeks of sweat and body spray — the second Steve walks in, Billy is stupidly fucking aware of him. 

Today is different, though. Billy can't quite put his finger on it at first. He inhales through his mouth and focuses on throwing on a gym shirt while somewhere behind him Steve swings open a locker door and begins undressing. 

By the time Billy stalks into the gymnasium, he's seething with agitation and the jarring realization that Steve Harrington showed up to school stinking like the first day of rut. 

And it's not like that should fucking matter, either, except Billy can't get the smell out of his head and he can't stop tasting it on his tongue. It disgusts him — not the smell itself, not Harrington, but the fact that Billy fucking _likes it._

Warm-up drills start. Billy can barely see straight, but that doesn't stop him from doing laps like it's a race and elbowing past Harrington whenever he gets the opportunity. Steve acts more annoyed about it than usual. He even goes so far as to try keeping pace with Billy on lap three like he's rising to the bait, for once. 

Billy's faster. It's a good thing, too; running alongside Harrington when he starts smelling like sweat and rut is enough to make his head spin. 

By the time warm-ups end, Billy's blood is boiling and his pulse is racing and all he wants to do is let his pent-up frustration out on something. It's a good thing they're playing dodgeball today. It's low contact enough but still gives Billy an outlet to hit something. 

He's not the only one chomping at the bit to let his aggression out, either. The whole class is on edge. And Harrington— Well. The second the ball is in play, he gets his hands on it and whips it so hard at one of Billy's teammates that he can hear the air _whoosh_ out of his chest as the ball connects. 

_Game on,_ Billy thinks. He spends the rest of the match trying to get a headshot on Harrington from across the other side of the gymnasium. He misses every shot he throws at Steve, but the two of them wind up in the final one-on-one. 

Billy fakes Steve out and gets him with a glancing blow to the shoulder. Steve cusses and stomps off the court in frustration. Seeing him pissed and worked up is almost worth the way Billy's entire body feels like it's throbbing, because now Steve's sweating even _more_ and it's—

Unbearable. Infuriating. 

Billy wants to kick his ass. He wants to shove that pretty boy face into the dirt. And then he wants to get his hands on Steve's cock. 

It's impossible not to notice it; Steve's gym shorts aren't baggy enough to hide the outline of his half-chub. Billy's been watching it fill up all game. 

Round two starts. Billy's so distracted he gets hit a couple minutes in. He's stuck watching from the sidelines as Steve single-handedly takes out half the other team, and thinks it's probably unfair to be letting a rutting alpha play any competitive sports. Steve's acting like a juiced up meathead. 

And what's really bullshit is that Billy can't stop thinking that it's fucking _hot._

The rest of gym class goes by in a blur. Billy feels like he's on speed, or something; his heart is racing and he's high on adrenaline. It's got him feeling angry and reckless, which is a goddamn dangerous combination, but Billy's not thinking clearly enough to care. 

While Billy is usually the first to hose himself down with cologne and be on his way, he can’t _not_ take a shower this time. His skin is crawling, and he thinks he’s gonna snap any moment now if he doesn’t scrub himself clean and raw. Steve’s scent clings to him, permeates his fucking pores; even with suppressants, Billy’s dripping wetter than any heat he’s ever had.

He can’t just _strip,_ though. The moment he drops trou he’ll have a lot of shit to answer for, so he bides his time instead. He brushes his teeth at the sinks and ducks into a bathroom stall to wipe out the inside of his shorts. It’s a mess of slick and pre worked into a cream that clings to his sweaty thighs. He tackles it with a wad of toilet paper, but it’s mostly pointless. The mess just smears around and leaves wet streaks along the inside of his shorts, which he’s then left to pull back on with a disgusted grimace. 

It buys him a few minutes, at least. Enough that by the time he leaves the stall, there’s only a couple of guys left toweling off by the lockers. 

Steve is among them. _Of course_ he is. It’s not enough for Billy to have to breathe in his fucking alpha rut stink all through gym class, now he’s gotta watch while Harrington combs back his wet hair in the mirror. He’s cleaned off most of the sweat, and he’s probably tried to use soap to wash up, because Billy can smell it sticking to his skin as he walks past. It’s not enough to mask Steve’s scent, though. Billy’s still choking on it. He’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get some fresh air soon, he’s going to lose it.

Billy loiters at his locker, taking his time stripping out of his shirt while he waits for the locker room to clear out. His skin is tingling, oversensitive and clammy, and it’s making him agitated. He can feel the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck while he listens to the scuffing of sneakers on linoleum as the last couple stragglers leave the locker room.

He doesn’t realize, at first, that Steve is still there. Or that he’s so close.

The hand gripping the edge of his locker door and swinging it wide open takes Billy by surprise. So does the fact that Steve’s suddenly standing directly beside him.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Steve says. He’s got a deep furrow in his brow and Billy can’t tell if he’s pissed off or confused. Might be a bit of both.

“ _Me?_ ” Billy spits. Steve is too close. Billy watches an errant droplet of water roll its way from under Steve’s damp hair and over his neck until it soaks into the collar of his shirt; he feels stupid, all of a sudden, like his brain’s come to a stutter-stop just from the stench of Steve’s skin. He feels like he’s going to do something he shouldn’t, but that’s not really anything new. 

“What the hell’s wrong with _you?_ ” 

Steve looks thrown off by the question. From this distance, Billy can see that the dark brown of Steve’s irises have been swallowed up by the black of his pupils. He’s all tense and agitated looking, too — if Billy couldn’t smell him, he might’ve wondered if Steve was on something. 

But Billy knows exactly why Steve’s acting like he’s tweaking. Why he’s staring at Billy and breathing in deep, nostrils flaring, before he slowly leans in closer.

Like he wasn’t already too fucking close.

“ _Nothing’s_ wrong with me,” Steve mutters. The furrow between his brow deepens. “You were the one trying to start shit all through gym class. Why?”

Billy barks out a laugh. It sounds manic to his own ears, but he’s teetering on a thin edge of something irrational and it’s just, it’s so _easy—_

He lurches without thinking, fingers catching Steve by the collar of his shirt. Billy shoves him into the lockers, gets all up in his face. He’s so fucking _wet_ and Steve smells like _heaven_ and all Billy wants to do is beat his fucking face in for even daring to get close, for opening his fucking mouth in the first place. 

“Oh, that’s what you think? _?_ ” he snarls. Up close, Steve’s scent is even stronger; the smell of soap does nothing to mask it, either. Billy’s lashes flutter as he takes a deep breath of it, swaying a little closer so he can hiss in Steve’s ear.

“You were the one acting high off your own _shit,_ Harrington. You’re walking around, stinking up the whole damn school, and you’re blaming _me_ for it? Get _fucked._ ”

Steve inhales sharply through his nose. He’s not subtle. Billy knows what he’s doing; he can tell by the way Steve turns his face toward Billy’s neck like a dog sniffing around for a meal. 

It should make him nervous. He might be on blockers, but they don’t block everything.Not when Billy’s been sweating and gushing for the past hour. And Steve’s probably got a nose like a bloodhound right now.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. He’s got this stupefied expression on his face as Billy holds him against the lockers. It’s not the aggressive retaliation Billy was expecting from an alpha in rut, but Steve looks like he’s struggling to rub his two brain cells together.

It’s only after another pointed sniff that Steve manages to speak.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

The crack of Steve's skull against the lockers would be far more satisfying if it weren't for the tight knot of anxiety rolling around in the pit of Billy's stomach. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if he should just give up on the charade. Steve clearly _knows_ by now. Even _he_ isn’t that stupid. And now that Steve knows _,_ there’s a part of Billy that wants nothing more than to be smothered in that scent, to bury himself in it and do whatever it takes to get Steve inside him like, _yesterday._

Billy hates that part of himself, but he knows that if he doesn’t do _something_ he’s gonna end up in even deeper shit, so the choice is obvious. 

Billy drops to his knees. 

Above him, he hears Steve give a pained grunt followed by a shocked gasp as Billy presses his face against the inner thigh of Steve’s khakis. He breathes in deeply, inhaling Steve’s scent in like he’s taking a drag of his first cigarette of the day. It’s so much more potent this close — even with the weak chemical cover of Steve’s soap and his laundry detergent, his scent is heavy and cloying and reeks of _alpha_ in the best possible way. 

Billy shudders. He doesn’t think he’s ever had this intense of a reaction to pheromones before. It should probably concern him. 

It mostly just pisses him off.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve snaps, his voice coming out strained. When Billy glances up, he sees that Steve’s eyes are wide and his expression glazed-over. There’s no anger there. His blacked-out eyes and the flush of Steve’s skin make him look more like he’s feverish than ready to throw hands, and it’s telling that he hasn’t made any moves to shove Billy away. 

Rather than answer his stupid question, Billy works his pants open. There’s zero reason for them to talk about any of this, especially because Billy doesn’t have a good answer to anything. His brain has officially taken a back seat and it’s all he can do not to tear Steve’s khakis off. His fingers fumble on the belt, clumsy and slow, and it takes him a few seconds to get the button through the hole and pull the zip down. 

He yanks Steve’s pants and boxers off with little fanfare. He’s too voracious, too violent to take any care, especially when Steve’s dick bobs free and curves out towards him. It’s long and thick and drooling pre, flushed pink where the head pokes out of the foreskin. 

Billy groans at the sight of it; there’s a throbbing between his own legs, another gush of slick along the inseam of his basketball shorts. He can’t help himself. 

Billy buries his face beside Steve’s cock, breathes in the smell of him, and drags his open, panting mouth over his pubes and up the shaft. 

Steve is huge. Billy doesn't have that many points of comparison outside of a couple of hookups and a few dirty mags, but it’s obvious that Steve’s packing. He’s a grower, too, because Billy doesn’t recall ever noticing Harrington was _this_ fucking hung whenever he caught glimpses of him in the showers. 

And then there’s his knot, half-swollen and already so thick that Billy can tell it’d be a challenge to fit it in. He gushes at the thought. It’s infuriating how tempting that is, as if it’s Steve’s fault Billy wants his dick this fucking bad.

He takes his frustration out on its source, wrapping a hand around Steve’s knot and squeezing until Steve honest-to-god _whimpers._

“Billy, c’mon.” Steve’s hips are rocking forward in what looks like instinctive little thrusts, like he’s trying desperately to fuck into the tight vise of Billy’s fist. 

“Shut _up_.” Billy squeezes again and earns himself another shaky-sounding whimper, but at least Steve doesn’t try to tell him what to do anymore. Instead, he reaches for his hair. Billy catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, considers jerking his head back just to spite Steve a little more, but all Steve does is settle his fingers on top of his head. He doesn’t yank it, doesn’t try to pull some alpha bullshit like putting Billy where he wants him, even if his fingers tremble like he’s resisting the urge.

He just leaves them there, resting gently on top of Billy’s head, and Billy gets to work. 

He wets his lips and drags them up the shaft, brows furrowed in concentration as he swipes his tongue over the tip and opens his mouth wide enough to take the girth of it. It’s almost uncomfortably big. Billy really has to watch his teeth as he swallows and slides down the length of it until his mouth meets his own closed fist.

Steve’s fingers curl in his hair. They’re not tugging, but Billy can feel the tension there, and judging by the way Steve is panting above him and the restrained twitching of his hips, it’s obvious he’s struggling.

 _Good._ He fucking deserves to for what he’s putting Billy through.

Billy glares up at him as he swallows around the girth of Steve’s cock and then finally, slowly, begins bobbing his head.

The reaction he gets is immediate; Steve gives a sort of hiccuping groan that’s muffled toward the end by the fist he shoves up against his mouth. He’s staring down at Billy, face twisted up like he’s in pain, and he might as well be for the way he can’t seem to stop gasping into his hand. 

Billy’s almost impressed by Steve’s show of self-control — at least, until he gives Steve’s knot another mean squeeze and suddenly the hand in his hair is tugging hard enough to make Billy’s eyes sting. 

And the worst part of that is, Billy kind of likes it. He’s still tempted to bite Steve’s dick for the hard pull, but even as eyes water it’s like the nerves in his scalp are directly connected to his cunt. It aches and drips and there’s no hiding his moan as it punches out of him — muffled, but still too loud to be mistaken for anything else. 

He pulls off Steve’s cock and gives the base of his knot a spiteful squeeze, shifting from one leg to another like it’ll help alleviate some of the pressure. It doesn’t. Billy’s head is a mess, his lips are slick with spit, his eyes are wide and wet, and his head feels full of fog and the smell of Steve’s dick. 

Billy still reaches up with his free hand to yank at Steve’s wrist with a snarl. 

“Hands _off_ , shithead.” 

At first, there’s a spark that resembles anger in Steve’s blacked-out eyes. It’s not like Steve’s usual displays of ire — those cold, mean looks he’ll sometimes get when Billy has gotten on his last nerve. No, this is something fiery, something feral, and for a minute Billy is sure that Steve is about to lash out at him just going by that angry sneer alone.

But then Steve’s expression crumples, and he’s suddenly letting go of Billy’s hair with a hangdog look on his face.

“Sorry, s’ hard to—” Steve clicks his jaw shut. He’s staring down at Billy with his nostrils flared wide and his mouth still hanging open. He looks strung out and stupid. Probably _is,_ considering the way he’s babbling now.

“You smell really good.”

Billy rolls his eyes and ignores the heat that crawls up his throat and over his cheeks in favor of focusing on what’s in front of him. Steve’s bullshit little compliments aren’t about to get to him. This is like, a one-and-done thing, just to blow some steam off. Billy’s only doing this to keep from feeling like he’s gonna fall apart. 

He drags his tongue back over the leaking tip of Steve’s dick and lets his eyes fall closed. There’s no hint of soap like before; Steve tastes like bitter salt and musk and Billy likes it better. He likes the way it tastes like sweat, like a little bit of _alpha._ He wishes he’d been able to get to Steve before his shower, but he contents himself knowing that he’s gonna make a fucking mess, anyway. 

He hollows out his cheeks and starts to bob his head. It’s slow at first —Billy hasn’t done this very often, and never with someone as big as Steve — but the more he drools the easier the slide becomes. Eventually, Steve’s dick is bumping at the back of his throat, glans rubbing up against his palate and nearly catching on his teeth. 

Steve's got his fist against his mouth again, but it's not helping much. Even muffled, he's fucking _loud_ , whimpering and grunting and gasping out little noises that echo in the empty locker room. Billy isn't sure if Steve's particularly sensitive because he's in rut, or if he’s just never had good head before. 

Billy figures it's probably both. 

It would explain why Steve's fingers are already curling against Billy's scalp, and why his breaths grow shallower and reedier the longer Billy gags on his cock. Steve's starting to roll his hips again, but it's obvious he's trying to hold back, just barely rocking his dick against the roof of Billy's mouth like he's desperate for the extra bit of friction. 

Billy doesn't have a gag reflex. Still, the spongy head of Steve's cock is big enough to choke him when it nudges at the back of his throat. Billy can't swallow around it. He ends up with more drool dripping down his chin, and his eyelashes are wet and clumping with tears. Billy blinks them away furiously and glares up at Steve's blurry face. 

"'M gonna—" Steve groans, looking like he's in pain Billy barely has a second to brace himself before Steve's cumming down his throat. 

There's a _lot._ It's something Billy kind of expected, faced with a dick like that, but it's still so much more than he thought he could handle. He tries to swallow, fingers squeezing tight around Steve's swelling knot, but he's choking, mouth full of cum that keeps dripping past the seal of his lips to trail slowly down his chin and over his throat. 

Billy jerks away, yanking against the hold on his hair until he can rear back and cough. He doesn't notice the splatter of cum that lands on his cheek, doesn't even pay attention to the way Steve still rocks against him. 

He's too busy hacking his lungs out and diving a hand down the front of his shorts. It takes just a couple of hard tugs and two fingers inside him before he's shuddering through his own orgasm with a groan, breathing hard and slumping forward to rest his forehead against Steve's thigh. 

There’s a long beat of silence, interrupted only by the sounds of their heavy breathing. Steve’s hand idly combs through Billy’s hair, like he’s trying to untangle the mess he made when he’d been pulling at it. The gentle scrape of Steve’s fingers against his scalp feels nicer than Billy is willing to admit. He allows it for as long as it takes him to catch his breath and wipe his mouth off, and then he’s shaking Steve’s hand away and pushing to his feet.

Steve has a dopey, blissed out look on his face. It quickly sobers up to surprise when Billy grabs him by the front of the shirt and slams him back against the lockers.

“You tell _anyone_ about me or what happened here, and you’re fucking _dead,_ Harrington,” Billy hisses, fists twisting up in Steve’s shirt until his knuckles are pressing up against his windpipe. “Got it?”

Maybe it’s the post-nut clarity that’s left Steve too complacent to put up a fight, but it seems even _King Steve_ isn’t alpha enough to fight back when Billy gets up in his face. Hell, he looks too stunned to say anything. It takes Billy slamming him back a second time for that stupid expression to shift half-way to anger.

“ _Christ—_ I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Steve says, glaring across at Billy. 

" _Good._ You better not." 

There's no real way to ensure compliance, but Billy gives Steve another rough shake just to drive the point home before letting him slump back against the lockers. 

He might’ve just fucked himself over today. It wouldn’t take much for this to get out to the whole school. Steve could ruin everything Billy’s been working so hard for since he arrived in this shithole town. 

Billy considers kicking his ass preemptively; after all, if he busts Steve’s jaw, Steve _can’t_ go running his mouth.

But when Billy looks up again, Steve has already collected his backpack and is stomping out of the locker room. Billy watches the door swing shut behind him, a familiar knot of anxiety clenching at his stomach.

He’ll keep pretending for as long as Steve can keep his mouth shut. Which better be indefinitely.

Billy throws one last lingering glare at the door before he turns around to strip out of his gym clothes and heads for the showers. No way he’s going to class smelling like slick and Steve.


End file.
